


Inception Ficlets

by AirgiodSLV



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:30:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Being a collection of various ficlets gathered from across the internet.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Untitled fluff (fluff meme)

**Author's Note:**

> Being a collection of various ficlets gathered from across the internet.

The name on the caller ID of Arthur's phone reads _Linda_. No other identifiers, which doesn't surprise Eames terribly because Arthur keeps his contacts protected, but it does mean he can't immediately put a face to the name.

He's over being jealous, for the most part. He knows Arthur has had women - many, many women - in cities all over the world, a flavor for each month and mood. He's met some of them, snooped around enough to identify others, and had enough hints over the course of their acquaintance to extrapolate the existence of more. He also knows those days are over.

So it's not jealousy, then, when he answers Arthur's phone, more a comfortable possessiveness. He's not ashamed to mark his territory if some past dalliance hasn't gotten the hint that Arthur is off the market.

"Arthur's phone," he says, with the most cheerful, lazy tone he can muster. "Arthur's not available at the moment, I'm afraid he's in the shower. Sans trousers, which is why he isn't able to answer his phone. The trousers are in quite a state anyway, he probably won't be putting them back on. Not that I didn't suck his cock like a professional, but before that things got a bit heated, and you know what they say about men with hair triggers."

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line. "Hello?" a woman's voice says finally. "This is Linda. Arthur's mother."

"Eames?" Arthur calls from the bathroom.

"He'll call you back," Eames says smoothly. He wonders how fast he can get out of the country without Arthur tracking his passport.


	2. Untitled fluff sequel (fluff meme)

Eames isn't a fool; he takes Arthur's phone with him when he goes, buying himself at least a few hours' lead and a better sense of direction.

By the time Arthur catches up with him, Eames is ensconced in the floral armchair by the window seat, a bone china tea cup resting neatly on the saucer in his hand, effusively complimenting the new lace curtains and weighing in on global economics.

"Arthur," Linda says with a warm smile, looking from Eames to her son, and Eames can see in his eyes the moment everything is forgiven.


	3. Continued fluff (fluff meme)

"I've never understood why you spend so much bloody time down here," Eames says when he plugs in and hijacks Arthur's subconscious, and if he's grumbling a bit, it's only because it's rare enough that he and Arthur are able to spend any time together, even if it is on a job, and Arthur's dreaming it away.

"I have more time to get things done down here," Arthur says, looking up from his work - because he is working, of course he is, even when he could be doing the same thing in the warehouse above, where he would also be _with Eames._

Eames doesn't understand how that excuses avoidance, and is about to say as much, when: "The sooner I finish this," Arthur explains, returning to his work with a faint smile, "the sooner I can go home with you."


	4. Rival for my affections (cuddling meme)

Arthur has a new toy. It’s a Beretta 92 series with an integrated mil-spec tactical rail and corrosion-resistant finish. It’s currently cradled against his chest while he tests the weight of it, both hands curved expertly around the grip.

“Why do we never cuddle like that, darling?” Eames asks, finally giving up on covert surveillance and setting aside his morning paper.

“Because you don’t have a one-piece captive recoil spring,” Arthur answers without looking up.

“Ah, but my firing mechanism is in good working order, and I do have an impressive barrel,” Eames returns.

Arthur runs his forefinger over the trigger guard, slowly, and Eames can imagine the textured pad of his finger dragging over smooth metal, gradually warming in Arthur’s hands.

“If I hold you tonight, will you stop complaining?” Arthur asks, his thumb sweeping over the safety once, twice. Eames hasn’t seen him this focused on anything since the Eagle Claw automatic tactical knife.

“I’ll consider it,” he allows.

Arthur removes the magazine and checks the chamber, breaking down the gun for the third time in an hour even though it’s been cleaned to a cold shine. His fingers curl around the muzzle and slide down the length of the barrel to lock the slide.

Eames resigns himself to tonight being a threesome.


	5. Untitled (kissing meme)

It's a Wednesday when the revelation happens. Arthur has Eames pressed up against a dirty back-alley wall, or perhaps Eames has Arthur, fingers threaded through his belt and the heels of his hands warm through the thin cotton blend of Arthur's shirt. They're kissing, which they can't seem to stop sneaking away to do, now that they've started. The rest of the team is inside the bar having drinks, and Arthur has Eames against a wall in an alley, because if they weren't here, they'd be in the men's room, or a taxi cab, or in one of their hotel rooms having pretended to be drunker than they are in order to get away.

Arthur has never felt this out of control in his life. He blames Eames' mouth, which is warm and wet and softer than he'd anticipated before they started this, whatever this is, and which Arthur has always had something of an appreciation for. He has more than an appreciation now, now that he knows what Eames' mouth feels like against his, now that he knows how Eames kisses, and the sensual, lazy stroke of his tongue. He loves Eames' mouth. He loves Eames' hands as well, actually, particularly as they're sliding gradually lower on his belt, fingertips grazing his thighs. He loves the way Eames smiles as soon as he knows Arthur's caught him out at it, the curve of his mouth hidden by their kiss. He loves...

Arthur jerks back, eyes wide. "Oh no," he says, because this can't be how it happens. He can't be in love. Love is something you plan with careful smiles and discussions of the future and a picture in your head of the life you want to live. Love isn't something you fall into in an alley that reeks of piss and beer, with someone's hands on your belt and their smile against your lips.

"No," he says, horrified. "Oh no, no. No."

Eames doesn't even bother to ask what's wrong, just smiles like he's been waiting for Arthur to have this revelation all along, like he knows exactly what Arthur is thinking, and that's perhaps the most horrifying thing of all.

"Oh, yes," Eames contradicts easily, and reels him back in.


	6. Timestamp: the day after the kissing meme ficlet

Arthur wakes before the sun rises and dresses silently, navigating the hotel room with the aid of the city lights bleeding in underneath the blackout curtains. In the wreck of the bed, Eames sleeps on, sprawled over three-quarters of the mattress with one arm curled around Arthur’s abandoned pillow. Arthur should be able to slip out, call a taxi, and be at the airport in half an hour.

He’s doing a final check of his pockets and belongings when he notices the small white envelope on the desk. It doesn’t belong to him, but he’s never been able to resist temptation, so he flips it over and looks inside.

There’s a one-way ticket to Changi International, departing in just under two hours. Arthur looks at the broad naked stretch of Eames’ back, and then back at the ticket. The job had finished yesterday, but Eames hadn’t set an alarm for an early flight, and he’s still wanted in Singapore for suspected art forgery.

For a moment Arthur panics at the thought that there might be two tickets in that envelope, but when he checks again there’s only one, and a receipt. He closes the envelope, leaving the ticket inside, and turns to face the bed.

Eames isn’t pretending to be asleep any longer; he’s watching Arthur through half-opened eyes, glittering in the near-darkness.

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, holding up the envelope.

“I assumed you’d want to go somewhere you have property, seeing as you don’t have another job lined up immediately,” Eames answers, voice low and gravelly from sleep. “You still keep a flat in Singapore, and all the flights to LAX departed after noon. The only other suitable thing was Oslo, but I know how you hate the cold.”

Arthur stands there with a plane ticket in his hand, staring at Eames because if he’d followed through on his original plan and left without a word, he’d probably be at the airport right now, buying this very ticket. Eames had known he would run. Eames is letting him do it, because he knows Arthur will come back to him. There’s a very touching Hallmark sentiment in there somewhere, Arthur’s certain of it.

He sets the envelope back down on the desk. Then he strips out of his clothes, folding them over the back of a chair, and slides silently back into bed.


	7. Kissing meme anniversary ficlet

It’s pissing down rain on Ko Phi Phi Leh, which is typical of this time of year but not any more welcome because of that. Arthur is soaked through his skin by the time he locates the long-tail boat moored in the sand, with a familiar tent pitched higher up on the beach, above the tide-line.

He’s loath to get water all over the inside of the tent, but he’s even more averse to standing outside any longer, growing soggier until he reaches his saturation point. He’s not going to get any less wet, waiting.

It’s dim inside the tent when he unzips the flap and pushes it aside to climb in. There’s a gun pointed at him on the other side, but he’d expected that and it tilts away as soon as Eames recognizes him. He’s honestly surprised Eames identifies him as quickly as he does, with the rain plastering his hair to his face and dripping off the end of his nose.

“You look like you had a pleasant trip,” Eames comments, while Arthur wrings out his clothes through the flap as best he can before zipping it up behind him. He offers up a towel without further comment, his gaze raking over Arthur’s wet clothing with the easy familiarity of someone who’s seen what’s beneath it but wouldn’t turn down additional viewings.

Arthur scrubs the towel through his hair, because the cold water dripping down the back of his neck bothers him more than the sodden button-down and cargo pants. “You had to choose the rainy season,” he gripes, although it’s really not so bad, the humidity offset by the temperate climate. Arthur has been in worse places.

“You chose to come,” Eames reminds him, and after a pause, he adds too-casually, “I’m almost surprised you did, actually.”

“Why?” Arthur shoves his damp hair back out of his eyes, away from his face. “You paid for the plane ticket.”

“Yes, well.” Eames hasn’t made a move to offer Arthur any dry clothing, so Arthur doesn’t take his off yet. He already knows how this particular battle of wills is going to end, but there’s no reason to capitulate so early in the game. “I’d rather thought you might stay away on principle, at least until tomorrow.”

Arthur stills, the wet towel halfway through sopping up the rainwater clinging to his neck and upper back. He knows exactly what Eames means, and it’s too obvious to pretend that he doesn’t. He’d been ignoring the date, and the timing of this invitation, but he’d known since Eames had first sent him the ticket.

“Did I have a reason to?” he asks, avoiding any more telling response.

Eames’ eyes are hooded. “I don’t know,” he replies, idle. “You tell me.”

Arthur drops to his knees and crawls until he’s in Eames’ lap, water transferring instantly from Arthur’s soaked clothes to Eames’ dry ones. Eames’ hands come up to cover his ass, helping Arthur balance and staking an early claim.

Arthur may pretend the dates don’t matter, but he knows where Eames counts from, and when he started counting. The day Arthur stopped running.

He’s not going to start again now.

“Next year you owe me a hotel,” he tells Eames, a loose tendril of his hair dripping rainwater onto Eames’ stubbled cheek. “Five stars. Champagne and strawberries, a king-sized bed, the lot.”

Eames tilts his face and Arthur counters, the two of them playing a dancing game of keep-away that leaves their mouths just barely brushing off each other’s skin, warm breath and fleeting contact. “I thought a remote beach in Thailand was a highly romantic choice,” Eames says, the words buzzing against the hinge of Arthur’s jaw and the lobe of his ear.

Arthur stops the game for long enough to give him a withering look. “In the rainy season?”

“Well, let’s face it,” Eames responds, adjusting his grip and hitching Arthur higher, closer. “Neither of us are going to be getting out much.”


	8. Untitled kink ficlet

For someone who’s been stabbed, sliced, and threatened far too often to be into knifeplay, Arthur is surprisingly – not to mention embarrassingly – responsive to needles.

“Fascinating,” Eames murmurs, drawing the sharp point of the needle across Arthur’s chest from his breastbone outward, applying just enough pressure that Arthur can feel it without Eames breaking the skin. “I wonder what the psychological reasoning behind this might be. Something to do with your childhood? Was your mother a seamstress?”

“Shut up,” Arthur orders, squeezing his eyes closed to block out Eames’ observant gaze but opening them again because he can’t help it, he needs to _see_. “Don’t talk about my mother– _fuck_.”

Eames smiles, sharper than the needle he’s currently pressing against Arthur’s nipple, harder now so that Arthur can feel the pinprick point of contact all the way to his curling toes. Eames relents when Arthur sucks in a breath and doesn’t release it, resting the needle’s cold metal shaft against Arthur’s skin and using it to push his nipple back and forth until Arthur can’t tell which is harder, his nipples or his cock.

“Is it the idea of me hurting you, or something more specific?” asks Eames, who’s been down this road enough times with Arthur to know that violence doesn’t get him going in the slightest. He sees too much of blood already as it is. “Is it that I could pierce your skin with it? Push it through –”

Eames’ words coincide with the sharp press of the needle point into the sensitive nerve endings in Arthur’s nipple, and his hips jerk upward before he can stop it, striving for friction with Eames’ muscled – and frustratingly out of reach – body. Eames grins then, another mystery of human nature revealed.

“Have you thought about having them pierced?” Eames asks conversationally. “I’d be surprised if you did; you’re so bloody sensitive, it’d only take one good tug to pull you apart –”

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur interrupts, pushing his head back hard into the pillow to try to clear his head, fighting the impulse to strain upward toward the needle, toward Eames; to reach for something, anything. He lets his eyes close for the briefest second, but then Eames drags the needle’s point over his other nipple, a maddening scratch over too-tender flesh.

The stinging scrape is followed by the warm wet overstimulation of Eames’ mouth, suckling lightly before laving his tongue over the tight knot of nerves that’s become the center of Arthur’s attention. After what had happened the first time he’d strayed to Arthur’s chest, Eames knows now exactly how to touch, to tease; to provide heat and suction in the exact quantities to make Arthur’s eyes roll back in his head.

“I could get a clothespin,” Eames says, conversational except for the way he’s still licking at Arthur’s skin, rough and hot. “Pinch you between my fingers, get you hard, and put a clamp on you to keep you that way. Maybe with a chain, so I can give you a tug as a reminder.”

Arthur draws breath to describe his previous misadventures with such novelties, but just then Eames stops teasing him with a lightly-poking tongue and turns his head instead, rubbing two days’ worth of stubble over already-screaming nerve endings. Arthur curls up hard, his knees rising instinctively to block Eames’ access to sensitive areas, but Eames just catches Arthur’s cock in one hand, effectively freezing him in confusion for a half-second while Eames rubs his thumb slowly over Arthur’s shaft. There’s cold metal against Arthur’s chest again, the sharp warning point of the needle, and Arthur can’t _breathe_.

“Do you think,” Eames murmurs, low and too close to Arthur’s ear, “that if I set this here, very carefully, and just…pushed…”

Arthur comes so hard and so suddenly that he almost knees Eames in the head, spasming all the way to his toes and nearly skewering himself on the needle before Eames can pull it hastily away from Arthur’s writhing body.

When he comes back to himself, Eames is rolling the needle between forefinger and thumb, looking insufferably smug.

Arthur turns his head to the side and breathes in, out. “I’m never telling you about anything again,” he tells the pillowcase, eyes closed and wrung out. His body is still singing, high-pitched and vibrating with the release of tension.

Eames chuckles, weight shifting as he settles over Arthur, hard cock bumping and rubbing against the lax slump of Arthur’s spent body. “If that’s a challenge,” he says, and the feel of his fingers and teeth on Arthur’s nipples is too much, too soon, tearing him apart all over again – “I think I might be able to convince you.”


	9. Full of surprises (kink meme)

Ariadne wolf-whistled when Eames walked in the door.

“Looking sharp,” she teased, leaning back against her drafting table to look him over appreciatively. “Arthur must be rubbing off on you.”

Yusuf raised his head expectantly, one hand poised over a beaker. Eames shook his head. “Too easy,” he told Yusuf. “Give me some credit.”

“What’s the occasion?” Ariadne asked. “Are you shadowing someone?”

“No reason,” Eames replied lightly. “I need an excuse to want to wear a tie?”

Across the room, Arthur met his eyes and smiled slowly.

Eames swallowed.

Once the rest of the team was suitably distracted from the novelty of his attire, Eames wandered over as casually as possible to Arthur’s desk. “You know,” he murmured, “I’m beginning to think you just wanted me in shirt collars and ties.”

Arthur glanced up. Then he gave Eames a lengthy, lingering once-over that made his whole body tingle. “That’s not all I wanted.”

Eames swallowed. His throat pushed against the leather collar encircling his neck as he did, reminding him of his confinement, of the thick black symbol of Arthur’s ownership.

“It is a byproduct, however,” Eames pointed out, because he could never seem to shut up when it came to baiting Arthur, even when he knew full well Arthur wouldn’t rise to it.

Arthur just raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t complain too much,” he said, voice low. “I could have plugged you instead.”

Eames inhaled sharply, unable to help thinking of a thick, solid plug inside him, jolting along his nerves every time he moved, filling him up. Of how Arthur could pull it out whenever he wanted and Eames would already be stretched wide enough to take him.

He swallowed again, and the collar pulled tight, taut against the pressure.

“Perhaps I should complain more,” he said, even though he knew, he _knew_ better than to keep going.

Luckily for him, Arthur didn’t seem to be running short on patience this morning. He leaned forward slightly, and Eames found himself bending automatically to be closer to him.

“Tell you what,” Arthur murmured. “Tonight, after we finish here. I’ll pick something suitable. Perhaps there’s one to match the leash I’m going to put you on.”

Eames held himself very still to keep from shuddering. It didn’t help when Arthur stood, suddenly in his space and present in a way that called every fiber of Eames’ being to attention. The musky scent of his cologne filled Eames’ nostrils when he inhaled.

“Swallow,” Arthur ordered quietly, and Eames did, remembering how Arthur had given him that same command earlier this morning, with two fingers beneath the thick leather strap pulling it gradually tighter until Eames’ breath came shallow and fast.

Arthur smiled faintly. “Good boy,” he said, and used the cover of their respective positions to press his hand briefly against Eames’ cock as he moved past.

Eames was tugging at the claustrophobic knot of his tie the next time Arthur strolled over to him.

“Stop fussing with it,” Arthur murmured, and Eames dropped his hand away even though it wasn’t technically a command, because apparently Arthur was conditioning him to obey no matter what the tone of voice.

“Sorry,” he said, casual and easy. “It’s just a bit tight, if you know what I mean.” He smiled, bland, scoring points back in the only way he could while in the company of their colleagues.

Arthur’s lips twitched. He leaned down, and once again Eames found himself straining forward, like a flower toward the goddamned sun. He caught himself belatedly, but Arthur was already turned toward him, mouth at his ear.

“If you hate wearing ties that much, I can collar something else tomorrow,” he murmured, and Eames didn’t even need Arthur to clarify before he was thinking of the cock ring that matched the cuffs behind Arthur’s bed and the collar currently around Eames’ neck. He thought of the weight of it between his legs, the constant unsettling pressure that would be a more insistent reminder of his surrender.

“Please,” he said, startling both of them.

Arthur recovered quickly, pulling back enough to study Eames for a moment before shaking his head. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual,” Eames drawled.

Arthur laughed. “Tonight,” he repeated, and went back to his desk.

Eames swallowed. And smiled.


	10. Message in a bottle

“Eames is missing.” It’s Ariadne, breathless and distracted, leaving a message on Arthur’s answering machine in his Mercer Island house because he doesn’t give that number out to anyone, so he never answers the phone.

He does this time.

“Tell me,” he orders, and she does. He gets her story and then he gets her a plane ticket to Washington. “How did you get this number?” he asks, although he already knows.

“Eames,” she answers. “He told me, right before. He said that if anything happened and he didn’t make the drop, I should call you.”

She shows up at the airport practically mummified in scarves, her hair frizzing in the rain. He takes her to his house – she could get the address now anyway, since she has the landline number – and leads her to the living room.

The sofa is dove gray, soft as suede and firm enough that it doesn’t envelop you when you sit. Eames calls it a bland, soulless piece of furniture to match a dreary, soulless city, but they had their first kiss on that sofa, six years ago, after a fight that had them battering at each other’s defenses until something had to give, and did. Arthur won’t get rid of it.

“I need you to design the last dream you shared with him,” Arthur tells Ariadne, pushing up the sleeve of his sweater. A jumper, Eames calls it, but Arthur refuses to call anything made of cashmere by such a plebian name. He already has the PASIV on the coffee table, lid open, timer set. “Can you do that? It has to be one in which he was the dreamer.”

“I think so.” Ariadne never makes promises unless she’s certain, but he trusts her estimation of her own abilities. She’s grown into them, and they were already formidable when he met her. “Why are we doing this?”

“Because if he sent you to me, there’s a reason.” It’s not as simple as Eames wanting Arthur to know something might have gone wrong, or hoping that Arthur would be the one looking for him, faster and better than anyone else. Eames gave Ariadne the number to this residence, along with a warning. He’d prepared for this.

Arthur preps the sedative cylinders and opens his laptop to iTunes, selecting a playlist consisting of a white noise file that lasts exactly ten seconds, followed by Carla Bruni. Ariadne has already double-checked the timer and is frowning at him.

“Ten seconds? How will that be long enough? Are we going that far under?”

“Not at all,” Arthur answers. “Almost the opposite, actually.”

Ariadne leans back into the reserved embrace of the sofa, waiting for him. Her eyes flicker around the room, taking in the décor and the personal touches, the photographs and mementos. All of the paintings on the wall are reproductions of famous works, and all of them were done by the same artist. There’s a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill and a distressed leather jacket tossed across the chair in the corner that Arthur hasn’t bothered to put away. Eames was supposed to have been back next week.

“Arthur,” Ariadne says, her gaze sweeping back to him, “Who lives here?”

“Eames,” he answers. “And me.”

He pushes the depressor.

The frontiers of the dreamsharing world primarily focus on pushing deeper, further into the subconscious, maintaining lucid dreaming even in a place as abstract as limbo. But there’s a place, just before waking, when dreams melt into conscious awareness. When they become so sharp and clear that you can drift in the perfection of the moment for an eternity before you wake and they leave you, grasping after wisps of memory that fade as your mind clears.

 _”Do you ever wish,” Eames had said once, a rumbled murmur against the nape of Arthur’s neck as they lay together, half-spooned in the sunshine, “that we could just stay here? Right here.”_

 _Arthur had rolled over, so close that their noses had touched, drifting on the lazy weight of almost-sleep and the warm, blanketing sensations of safety and trust._

 _“Yes.”_

Eames’ last dream was a waterfront village, dotted with beach houses and lifeguard towers out on the rocky, shell-sharp sand, with gulls wheeling overhead and the smell of greasy fried potatoes in the damp, salty air. It’s soft around the edges, caught on the verge of collapse, held off by the sedative that won’t quite let them wake even though the wind carries the soothing sound of a woman’s voice.

“Where are we?” Ariadne asks beside him. She doesn’t mean the location of the dream; he can tell she feels the pull to wake, even though she doesn’t know what it is. “Are we…did you take us directly to limbo somehow?”

“No.” There’s a boy flying a red kite down on the wet sand, the bright colored cloth fluttering like a banner; Arthur starts walking in that direction. “This isn’t even truly a first level. This type of dream is still directly tied to the conscious mind. It’s easier to manipulate, but it’s also easier to lose. We won’t be able to hold onto it for long.”

Ariadne’s legs aren’t as long as his; she has to walk quickly to keep up, skipping over shells and heaps of questionable ocean detritus. Eames is too British to dream a sandy paradise, when it comes down to it. “Why are we here? What are you looking for?”

He scans the horizon and keeps walking. “A message.”

There’s something bobbing along the shoreline, and he turns as soon as he sees it, a homing beacon drawn to the target. Ariadne scrambles behind him, picking her way more carefully across the beach; she’s barefoot in this dream, wearing a long sundress that tangles around her legs in the breeze. Arthur is wearing Italian loafers. His subconscious is too wary of broken glass and beached jellyfish.

Shells crunch beneath his feet, and he’s within a few feet of the thing floating in the water behind him when Ariadne says, “No. It can’t be that easy.”

“It’s Eames.” Arthur crouches down and pulls the bottle out of the foam, shaking off some of the water clinging to the glass before working the cork loose from the neck. There’s a scrap of paper inside, bleached yellow from the sun and curled loosely against the confines of the bottle. Eames never chooses subterfuge when forthright will do just as well.

There’s a sketch inside, because Eames will also never choose words over a picture, of an eye within a sun, caught in the shadow of an anonymous profile. To anyone else, it would be more flotsam like the shredded newsprint or half-crushed cans tangled in seaweed lying along the shore.

Arthur stands up and brushes sand off his knees. “We’re going to Cairo.”


End file.
